


this particular enterprise

by eyemoji



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Eyes, Monster!Jon, Statement withdrawal, Web!Martin, both inadvertent and deliberate compulsion, honestly i didn't pay attention to spoilers during this so possible spoilers up to 125, lmk if i should tag anything else, monstrification, really shitty plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: in retrospect, it makes sense that the antithesis of Beholding is the Dark, of Not!Knowing and Unknowing and being kept out of the loop.jon has a hunger.





	this particular enterprise

**Author's Note:**

> “majesty is a thing of beauty to behold, whatever the particular enterprise.” - frank deford

jonathan sim’s eyes are closed.

 

* * *

 

his assistants won’t let him see; slip their own hands over his eyes when they change out his blindfold each night. they rotate duty, to ensure the cloth is always there, always thick enough to block out the world.

 

* * *

  

when basira starts to feel woozy, starts to feel a prickling at the tips of her fingers and the end of her nose instead of the back of her neck, she offers to cover her eyes, too. melanie asks her what this morning’s winning lottery numbers were. she doesn’t know the answer.

 

basira does not wear the blindfold.

 

* * *

  

a few days and he’s given up the griping, even to himself; a few weeks and he’s started to forget what it felt like to have vision. he hardly understands how elias can-- _could_ \-- deal with so many images, so many incoming feeds. much easier to deal with nothing at all.

 

he supposes this change of heart means their plan is working.

 

or maybe the people’s church are just in town again.

 

* * *

 

it’s been a long time since one man was both Archivist and Watcher, and though jon has never been a fan of murder, something about the way his pieces seemed to all fit together the second the transfer was complete urges him even now to accept that this was all for the best.

 

he couldn’t stop melanie from her slaughter, in the end, but he supposes the fact that the Archives’ ties to elias had been severed beforehand made it somewhat acceptable. at the very least, it must have been cathartic enough to please what remained of the entity poisoning her from the inside out, since she hasn’t gone off again in his presence since.

 

he wonders, now, under the coolness of the fabrics against his face, what jonah magnus must think of him. for a long time, they’d all wondered to varying degrees-- could _elias_ be?-- but no; he wasn’t. and so he contemplates, with not much else to do with his time but wither-- how would jonah magnus react, knowing that the first person to stand in his stead since he first split the roles of Watcher and Archivist fully intends to destroy his precious Archives?

 

* * *

 

 

alright, so it’s a bit of an exaggeration, that. none of them, save perhaps melanie, truly want to burn down the entire Archives-- at most, the idea is sitting on backburner, slowly cooking to completion.

 

no, if they want to stick with the culinary metaphor, their plan is to starve him, instead.

 

hence the blindfold.

 

they’ve banned him from taking statements, too-- well, that’s the main point of all this, really, and while he may have agreed to all their stipulations, he hadn’t realized quite how bad the withdrawal would become (compared to this, the nicotine is nothing.) he spends most of his time shaking in his office, pen in his hand jittery enough that he’s sure his letters are unrecognizable.

martin comes to collect him at the end of each workday, and jon tries to ignore how _cold_ his hand feels in his as he’s led out of the institute and to what, presumably, is his flat.

 

wherever they are, martin’s definitely been taking him to the same place every day, since in the weeks they’ve undergone this routine, jon’s been able to figure out the layout-- and it does seem very similar to what he remembers his being like.

 

still.

 

there’s always that fear, and in retrospect, it makes sense that the antithesis of Beholding is the Dark, of Not!Knowing and Unknowing and being kept out of the loop, but that doesn’t mean jon can’t shake the crawling feeling of being buried and burned and lost at sea and alone all at once like a salad of spooks with the fork poised right above him; he doesn’t much appreciate being the one watched. especially when he can’t stare right back.

 

* * *

 

 _“do you like it?”_ gerry had asked, undead and unweary and unamused.

 

 _“yes, i suppose i do,”_ jon had answered, and he thinks back on that statement now, remembers the words as having spilled from his mouth in a stream of surprise, his eyes widening slightly though there had been no compulsion present but his own.

 _had_ he liked it? his knuckles are white against the side of the chair where he grips it, though whether he’s nervous or restraining himself from lunging across his desk and reaching for whoever stands on the other side, he’s not quite sure.

he _is_ sure, however, that, all other feelings for the ability aside, he’d _missed_ this.  
he can feel the comfort flooding his chest and traveling across his shoulders, spreading up his larynx and pooling in his stomach, draining down to his toes, as he lets the syrup roll into his voice for the first time in weeks.

 

“martin? is that you?”

 

 _he’s the one you’ll have the most luck with; if it’s melanie or basira prepare to make a run for it--_ but he _knows_ it’s martin, sure as he knows he’s still only got two eyes,

 

and, too quickly:

 

“yes? what is it, jon?

 

…”

 

and a shark’s grin spreads across sims’ smile as he prepares himself for his next question--

 

“...wait. no. jon, don’t- don’t answer that. don’t. say. _anything_.”

 

\--and suddenly jon’s mouth won’t work and there’s no air rushing through his pharynx, and his hands reach up to claw at his throat in a futile attempt to get the sounds working again, and if martin could see his face properly, he can imagine the terrified look of confusion displayed there.

 

“i’m sorry.”

 

all jon can do is listen to the door fall shut behind martin’s fading footsteps.

 

* * *

 

he can see more than usual today; something is different.

 

it’s not… _vision_ , exactly; there isn’t so much a picture in his head as the grainy, flickering knowledge that the others are up to something:

 

 _“we’ve got to do_ something, _”_ he can imagine basira saying; or, well, he can imagine it in her voice, followed by a quiet rustling as if she’s not alone; her voice echoing like his used to do back in his days of exploring the--

 _the tunnels_.

 

melanie’s next, typical impatience as she follows with “finally, something i can agree with.”

 

he can almost hear the way their eyes shift to what must be martin, whose expression is, unfortunately, silent, as expressions tend to be.

 

there’s a long silence, interrupting only by more shuffling. then:

 

“are we sure there isn’t another way? i mean, basira, please-- he agreed to this! this was voluntary! and-- melanie, after your leg, i mean--”

 

“martin.”

 

basira’s voice is low and soft, and yet, still, commanding. jon can _feel_ martin deflate.

 

“yeah. yeah, i know.”

 

another silence.

 

“it’s getting worse, you know. last time i was with him, he-- well, he _tried_ \-- and then i told him to stop, and he obeyed, so i guess that’s a good sign, but--”

 

basira and melanie exchange knowing glances as martin goes on, and something twists in jon’s stomach when he thinks about the implications. surely-- not _martin_ \-- but they’re right. it’s a problem for another day.

 

jon’s palm throbs as he gets up to try and clear his head.

 

* * *

 

 

 _they would have used martin,_ is his first thought, _or even basira,_ if they were actually trying to kill him. they wouldn’t be so sloppy as to use _melanie_ , would they?

 

he still can’t see, but he can feel her glowering at him from the other side of the desk. he’s honestly not sure why they seat him in his office every day, still, but he doesn’t have much room to complain considering its the space in the Archives he knows best.

 

he knows she has a reason for being here, can feel the purposeful intent in her… he hesitates to call it an _aura_ , but she does exude a very specific presence, so perhaps all things considered it’s a valid assessment.

 

“martin’s busy, so i’m on daycare duty,” she says. “lucky me.”

jon estimates that the pH of her voice is at about a neat 2.4.

 

“here’s your-- whatever.”

 

her voice is just shy of properly spitting.

 

she slides the tray forward on the desk with a screech that doesn’t help jon’s pounding head, then-- _and is she hesitating?--_ reaches out with whatever is in her left hand.

 

“coffee,” is what he gets by way of explanation, “milk and two sugars, _just_ the way you like it,” and jon has never truly appreciated the full scope of sarcasm until now, when he’s on the receiving end.

 

his hand twitches as melanie holds the cup out to him-- _remember elias, remember the first attempt, remember--_ but he’s being ridiculous; melanie has no reason to kill him _now_ , does she?

 

his mind wanders back to the conversation he could have sworn he overheard even as he lifts his arm to accept the coffee.

 

it’s this train of thought that delays his startled reflex when melanie screams.

 

the coffee falls from her grasp and hits the table with a crack and a _splash_ , and melanie, the only one with the advantage of real-time visuals, is the only one who thinks to pull back her hand.

 

the last thing jon is shown before his mind completely dissociates from the pain is the dark black-brown of the boiling coffee against the slightly lighter shade of his palm-- and the stark white sclera of the eye nestled within it.

 

* * *

he wonders if this is somehow jude perry’s doing.

 

* * *

when he properly comes back to himself, the first thing he does is grab and examine his now twice-burned hand.

 

aside from heat (redness, he assumes) and swelling where the eye-- where the _coffee_ had hit, there’s nothing out of the ordinary that he can feel.

 

had he been hallucinating? but then, why melanie’s scream?

 

his fingers keep worrying at his palm.

 

why had he been shown that? could the Eye send him images that were never real? was the Spiral somehow involved? michael? helen?

 

with each swipe of the pad of his thumb against the raised, smooth lump, he expects the skin to split open, for something-- he’s not sure what-- to come rushing out, as if he was the next coming of jane prentiss.

 

he shivers.

 

his skin stays intact.

 

* * *

that night, he does not sleep. something is prickling, inside him, and he wonders if this is punishment for continuing with the plan, their _foolish_ plan; how had they ever thought that the will of one man (and admittedly, three assistants) would be enough to starve an entity older than time itself? how could they have been so _stupid?_

 

he wakes up from a fruitless sleep sore and covered in what appear to be hives.

 

martin takes one look at him and phones basira.

 

* * *

the jury has ruled: he is being confined to house arrest, against every single one of his wishes. there are already so few pleasures left for him; having the thin veneer of ‘autonomy’ provided by the journey to the Archives every day is one of them, and he doesn’t want to give it up without a fight.

 

but then martin asks so nicely, seems truly worried, and with a sigh, jon acquiesces. at least for now, he tells himself. _maybe some rest will do me good._

 

* * *

rest does not do him good. he wakes up with the hives even more tender, the skin around each more sensitive than he was ever aware skin could be. martin informs him that they’re beginning to take on a pinkish hue, and when he brushes a finger gently again one out of curiosity, jon hisses and pulls away before he can say “sorry.”

 

there had been no actual _pain_ before martin’s touch, but now the point of contact radiates waves of agony at regular intervals, throbbing in time to jon’s beating heart.

his heart is beating faster, now, all things considered, but he does his best to think nothing of it until the pain starts to _spread_.

 

“m-martin?” he calls, if only to not feel entirely adrift in the place that may or may not be his own flat.

 

the world seems to spin, and he doesn’t realize martin’s caught him until the deep blue of today’s blindfold darkens to the black of unconsciousness, and his back and arms explode in agony wherever martin makes contact.

 

* * *

days, month, minutes; jon has no idea how much time has gone by, only that he hurts so much he ought to be numb, and it’s all he can think-- _ow ow ow ow ithurtsithurtsithurts makeitstop martintaketheblindfoldoffwecanfindanotherwaymartin_ please _._

 

he can’t even bring himself to try and form the words-- shoulders, back, neck, legs, arms, cheek; everything _hurts_ , and he is in so much pain he can barely breathe-- _is_ he even breathing anymore? does it matter?

 

he tosses and turns until martin comes in to ask him if he could please stop, and does he need anything?

 

to this day, he doesn’t think martin was aware-- he hopes and prays to the god he doesn’t believe in that martin wasn’t aware-- but as soon as the word _please_ leaves martin’s lips he goes rigid as a board, stiff even through the agony.

 

* * *

when morning comes, the pain is gone.

 

he can feel the softness of the lumps that cover his body; or, well, that’s not the right phrase-- of the new parts of him that have finally grown in to convert him to his full potential.

 

his hands move upwards almost of their own accord, and as they do, he can make out the faint ringing of the telephone in the hall.

 

his fingers alight upon the sturdy knot of fabric holding their last resort in place; they work and pick at it, loosening it bit by bit. the phone rings more frantically. he thinks he hears martin wake up.

 

the blindfold flutters to the mattress as his hands reign triumphant, and a smooth, curved smile spreads across his face as he takes one moment to just savor the air across his lids, the desperate sound of martin’s footsteps heading towards his door, the frantic vibrations of a locked doorknob attempting to turn.

 

* * *

 

by the time martin picks the lock and yanks it open, it is too late;

 

* * *

 

 

the Archivist opens its eyes, and oh, it is majestic.

**Author's Note:**

> the beholding was hangry and fuckin killed jon
> 
> also, shoutout to @sazandorable for their take on web!martin because i love it very much and it definitely influenced the martin in this


End file.
